


Memories

by temporaryistemporary



Series: a chosen family [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: And Ghostbur, Bad Parent Philza, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Doomsday, Friend The Sheep - Freeform, Ghostbur, L’manberg war, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Not a lot of dialogue, Pre-Canon, Protective Wilbur Soot, Suicidal Thoughts, Technosoft, Wilbur is the character death, again from Wilbur, except when he’s blowing up their home, i guess, pre resurrection, technoblade is soft for the kids, this is about the characters not the people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporaryistemporary/pseuds/temporaryistemporary
Summary: A look into Wilbur’s life before and during the SMP.Takes place before Peace
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: a chosen family [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119869
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	1. Wilbur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* - talk about death

The house itself had always been rather quiet. Phil was calm and patient, and Wilbur liked to spend his free time reading or watching the stars. Any big scale ideas or adventures that Philza had were done far from the home, if not in an entirely different realm altogether. So, other than the occasional noise from the farm animals or mobs from the nearby forest, it was quiet. And then his father had brought home an infant.

His brother had been a surprisingly calm baby. Oh, he was loud, but not because he cried a lot. In fact, Tommy ( _Theseus_ , the voice of his father corrected) rarely ever cried, instead he would smile or let out shrieking, burbling laughter at almost anything. The only times Wilbur could remember the infant weeping was when he was sick, and the only way the baby could communicate how awful he was feeling was through heaving sobs that left his brother wheezing so hard Wilbur was afraid his chest would collapse. He had refused to sleep in his own room for a week after the first time, insisting that he stay in his fathers room on a cot next to the bassinet, to keep an eye on his Toms. Eventually Philza had moved the crib into Wilbur’s room, if only to get his eldest to sleep in his own bed.

When the time came for Philza to go on another adventure, Wilbur knew everything there was to know about how to care for his baby brother. He knew how to get milk from the cows and how to prepare it for Tommy to drink. He knew which fruits to mash up and what tricks he had to use to get Tommy to eat them. He had memorized the sounds his brother would make and what they all meant. And he knew what cords to strum on his new guitar to get Tommy to sleep through the night. He was very good at taking care of his brother. Maybe a little too good.

Phil’s trips became longer and longer, once he realized he could leave and still come back to two perfectly healthy children. They went from a day's journey to the nearest village, into a month-long outing to another realm, to a lasting expedition with a friend that Wilbur had only met once or twice in person. He received letters from his father, along with little flowers or books from places he was sure he’d never be able to go to. He’d show them to Tommy, who would giggle and clap his little hands at colorful petals, and prattle on in a nonsense sort of way as Wilbur read, as if trying to mimic the words from the pages. It wasn’t so bad, even if Phil spent less and less time at home, even if he only really came back to collect items and drop off groceries Wilbur had already been forced to pick up on his own after their supplies ran short, even if the sound of his fathers wings now only made his shoulders tense, though he wasn’t sure why. At least he had Tommy this time, the baby was a bright light in his life that he hadn’t known he was missing.

Wilbur loved watching Tommy grow up. He laughed in delight when the child had first begun learning to crawl, wiggling wildly on his stomach and using chubby fingers to drag himself forwards. He practically whooped in delight when Tommy gripped the leg of his pants and shakily pulled himself to stand, and, once he had mastered that phase, had taken his first steps right into Wilbur’s waiting arms. He cried when the first real word slipped its way out of his boy’s fumbling mouth, and smiling proudly when he told anyone that would listen that it had been _‘cow’_.

(He hadn’t been sure how to say his baby brother's actual first word had been _‘dada’_ and how he knew for a fact it hadn’t been meant for Phil. He also wasn’t sure how to explain that his heart warmed at the title, even though he was far too young to be a father. And if, from then on, he avoided using any variation of the word dad, well, Philza never commented on it. And if, after careful coaching, Tommy’s warbling voice called out a soft _‘Wilby’_ , and Wilbur cooed at his brother through his tears, well, so what.)

Once Tommy had started talking, Wilbur couldn’t get him to stop. He’d babble on and on about anything and everything, stringing together words better than some of the children he had seen around the nearby village. He began homeschooling Tommy as soon as he could, using books he had nicked from the library, and teaching the boy to read and then to write, and Tommy picked it up quickly, insisting he write with Wilbur when it came time to open the letters from Philza. Wilbur never sent the letters, instead keeping them for himself in his desk drawer. He knew their father would probably toss the pages anyway, was fairly certain it’s what he did with Wilbur’s own letters.

And then Wilbur’s biggest nightmare had happened. He had taken Tommy to the market, knowing the trip would be a long one, and Tommy had insisted on walking, hand gripped tight in Wilbur’s own. It had been far more crowded than he had anticipated for being so late in the day and he jumped as he felt the tiny fingers slip from his grasp, trying to follow them but being temporarily stopped by the crown. By the time he found Tommy again, his throat hurt from shouting the child’s name, and he coughed into his elbow as his eyes lay on his brother kneeling in front of another kid, a bit tinier than Tommy, with big blue eyes and dirty blonde hair.

His name was Tubbo and Wilbur refused to let him sleep in a box. They took him home and told him he could stay with them for as long as he wanted, Wilbur quietly promising to look for the other boy’s dad whenever he could. The boys got along great, and Wilbur was ever amused at the way one would drag the other around, laughing and playing a game he could never understand. Tubbo was a happy child, only a little quieter than Tommy, and thanked Wilbur for letting him stay every time he tucked the boys in for the night. Wilbur had concluded, after many hours at the markets spent scanning the crowd, that he hated Tubbo’s father. Especially when he entered the kids room one night, after hearing some all too familiar noises, to find his brother hugging a sobbing Tubbo to his chest, brushing gentle fingers through his hair and telling him about a bee he had seen earlier that day. Wilbur had left the room and returned with his guitar, crawling into the bed and sitting with the instrument in his lap, strumming and murmuring lyrics of songs he barely knew until snoring filled the room. Tubbo stopped talking about his father as much, after that night.

He began teaching Tubbo to read and write too, although the boy had more trouble with it than Tommy did. Wilbur did his best to help him through it, and his heart warmed when he spotted both the boys kneeling over a book about animals, Tubbo reading aloud and Tommy helping to sound out words he got stuck on. He started teaching them other things too: how to care for the farm animals, how to plant and tend to the crops, and the best places around the property to hide or run to in case a mob wandered too close to the house.

Tubbo had been confused when Philza had first made an appearance after he had moved in, quietly eyeing the tall, winged man as he dropped a few potion ingredients into a chest and grabbed an oddly shaped box out of another. He didn’t say much while the man was around, instead opting to follow Wilbur around like a duckling, when he wasn’t off playing with Tommy, hanging onto his words and watching as he worked. That afternoon, after Phil had left, Tubbo had tugged on Wilbur’s sleeve and asked who the man with the wings had been. It was then that Wilbur realized he hadn’t even spoken to his father, not that Phil had tried to talk to him either, or Tommy. It should’ve angered him, but he just sighed and smiled sadly as he explained to Tubbo that the man was his and Tommy’s father, and that he wasn’t around all that often so Tubbo shouldn’t worry about it too much. Tubbo had looked thoughtful for a moment before whispering that he had thought _Wilbur_ was Tommy’s dad, and then wandering off to his and Tommy’s room to play like he hadn’t just caused Wilbur’s heart to stutter.

It wasn’t that Wilbur hadn’t thought about it. Tommy had slipped up and called him dad in the past, to which Wilbur would gently remind him they were brothers, and that Philza was their dad. He would then ignore the furrow in Tommy’s brow and the ache in his chest, ruffling his brother’s hair and breezing past the conversation. Hell, even some of the older people in the village had mistaken Wilbur as Tommy’s dad, usually after Tommy looked at them with his big blue eyes, asking cutely for some form of sweets ( _“Go on and ask your father, dear.”_ ). It made something in his soul _sing_ , but it also made his throat tighten and his stomach swirl. He was too young to be a father, this shouldn’t be his responsibility. Philza should be here, taking care of him and Tommy, and now Tubbo, teaching them and watching over them as they played in the garden. It shouldn’t have fallen solely on Wilbur’s shoulders but here he was.

Here he was with his boys, his kids, no matter what anything else in his mind screamed at him. Wilbur was a child too, a teenager, but he had matured fast, he had to, in order to protect and care for Tommy and Tubbo.

After a few years of just him and his brothers, and occasionally Philza, and even less frequently Techno, Tubbo quietly asked if Wilbur knew how to play piano, since he was so good at his other instrument. They didn’t have a piano. But the boys had become obsessed with the instrument after seeing a man in the music shop playing one, and begged for Wilbur to get one. It took a lot of emerald trading but he was finally able to buy one. It was an older thing, made of birch and chipped in a few places, with a key that didn’t work too well and another that was missing. Nothing that Wilbur couldn’t fix, once he read through any book he could find on pianos.

He had gone to a far village to pick it up, a trip that would take, at most, two days. Wilbur worried about leaving Tommy and Tubbo alone that long, but the nice elderly woman at the bakery had promised to check in on them and bring them homemade meals, and it eased the tension in him just a little bit. The town was different from the one near their home, with so many more buildings and surrounded by a large cobblestone wall so no hostile mobs could attack. A pang went through his chest when he thought back to the open air of home, less crowded and restrictive than the dense city, even as he strolled outside the walls. The canopy of trees provided good cover, even from the light droplets that had started to fall during his walk, the fresh smell of the forest calming his nerves. He was about to head back to the village when a cry had reached his ears, sharp and loud. Wilbur had scanned the area, eyes settling on a form curled underneath one of the trees. The child was small, humanoid but fox-like, and he was shaking like a leaf.

His name was Fundy and he returned home with Wilbur and the piano, his eyes having lit up when Wilbur had mentioned the instrument. Tommy and Tubbo had been excited at the prospect of a new playmate, not even complaining when Wilbur had cleared out and reorganized one of the chest rooms, repurposing it into another bedroom for the older boy (Tubbo and Tommy quite liked sharing a room anyway). Wilbur cleared out another space in the living room for the piano and he taught himself to play, fingers gliding over the keys and his boys watching him with wide eyes and even wider smiles. He helped the three practice as well, guiding their tiny fingers and humming along to the music. Fundy was exceptionally good at this, seeming to already have some knowledge of the instrument and making up tunes on the spot.

Over the years Wilbur would often look back on the letter that the fox hybrid had handed him when they first met, reading it again and again and wondering if Sally (at least that’s what the note had been signed as) was disappointed with how he was raising her son. And then he would watch as his boys ran around the garden, laughing and smiling among themselves and he would dismiss the thought.

Philza, again, said nothing about the new body around the house, just asking where one of the items from the spare room had gone, while Technoblade stood ominously in the kitchen. Wilbur had led his father out to the shed he had constructed, leaving him to root through the chests, and coming back to find the piglin warrior kneeling on the ground with his boys sitting in front of him, watching him with wide eyes as he droned on about a tournament he had fought in, against a green man with a smiley face mask. They locked eyes as he walked in, Wilbur raising an eyebrow at the scene, and Technoblade giving a half shrug in return. He later told Wilbur, as he and Philza were walking out the door, that the boys were heathens and wouldn’t stop pestering him with questions and that was the only reason he even spoke to them at all. Privately, Wilbur just thought the man was soft.

Fundy asked the same questions Tubbo had asked years prior, upon first meeting Phil, having come to the same conclusion and face scrunching up at Wilbur’s response. The hybrid stared at him for days afterwards, eyes shining with mischief and a knowledge that Wilbur didn’t quite understand. The high pitched giggle that escaped Fundy when Wilbur dropped the wooden sword he had been holding after the boy casually referred to him as dad during a sparring lesson, did nothing to soothe his fast beating heart. Every conversation with the child was blocked by Fundy himself, skirting around corners or quickly busying himself with farm work whenever Wilbur seemed to be gearing up for a serious conversation, all the while never referring to the man by name. When he finally cornered the boy to talk, he found himself unable to speak, Fundy interrupting him off the bat with a long speech in which the fox hybrid claimed the man truly was like a father to him and his mother would be thrilled with how Wilbur was taking care of him and Fundy would very much like Wilbur to be his dad, please. Wilbur had definitely cried, a lot.

(He later spoke with Tommy and Tubbo separately, informing them of the situation and giving them the same option, now that he was older and felt more comfortable with the idea. Tubbo had politely declined, still holding onto a thread of hope that he would find _his_ father again someday, though admitting that he did see Wilbur as some form of family. Tommy had taken a bit longer to respond, silently holding Wilbur’s hand in his, before murmuring a _no_ , closing his eyes as _his Wilby_ held him tightly to his chest and ran a calloused hand through his hair.)

The house was stifling, the air heavy in a way that almost made it hard to move. It had been that way awhile now, and Wilbur just wanted out. He had talked it out with his boys, all coming to an agreement, and the four began packing what they would need for their journey. He left a note for Phil, telling the man where they had gone, and wondered when or if his father would ever see it.

The Dream SMP was certainly something else. The realm itself was beautiful, and it alleviated some of the weight that had settled in his lungs, letting him breathe a little easier. The boys insisted they have their own bases on the SMP, even if they tended to stray back to Wilbur’s side, hanging around the chained sphere and then around the watery lands near the camarvan. It was good, and his boys were having fun, so he didn’t mention the bandana wearing man watching them from afar. Didn’t say anything when his eyes continuously locked onto tinted goggles whenever he left his own land. He only quietly mentioned to Tommy late one night, after convincing the boy to camp out with him in the van, that he was fairly certain he kept seeing a bone white mask with a painted smile peeking at him through the trees. He only squeezed Tubbo’s shoulder, gifting him some healing potions with a tight smile and a sharp nod. He only left Fundy an iron sword, hidden in a shared chest along with some golden carrots, just as a precaution.

Niki and Eret were kind. Niki would bring over fresh baked treats, handing them over with a pretty smile even as her eyes scanned the tree line and she traded information and food with a hushed voice. Eret brought building supplies, filling up spare chests with wood and concrete, their eyes hidden behind reflective shades and tense shoulders holding a warning.

And then it all went wrong, everything falling downhill in a landslide of arguments and betrayal. The discs, the “drugs”, L’Manberg. They should’ve never come here and now they were stuck, the rules around realms preventing Wilbur from just taking his boys and getting the hell out. At least he had Niki to help out, even as they reeled from Eret’s betrayal. Even as he held Tommy close after he respawned from the duel with Dream. Even as he celebrated their independence with his family (because Niki was a part of that now).

The election was supposed to be fun. For all that he played it up, Wilbur couldn’t give two shits about the presidency, not as much as the others thought, anyway. As long as they weren’t under Dreams controlling grasp, he was just fine where he was. In the Nation he built for and with his family, ignoring the person shaped hole and an altered line in the anthem.

The exile was unexpected. Granted, he didn’t know Schlatt all that well, the man gave him quite the headache sometimes, but he seemed like a smart businessman, and Wilbur had fun with their little rivalry. Being banished from his own country hadn’t even been something he had considered, the declaration coming so far out of left field that the air had left his lungs and if it hadn’t been for Tommy’s panicked yelling, he would’ve let them shoot him dead then and there. He almost wished they had so he didn’t have to look back and see their flag going up in flames with a familiar figure standing under it.

Wilbur hadn’t made it to the hide-out, an arrow through the heart preventing him from leaving the woods, but he breathed out a sigh of relief when he uncovered the entrance to find his little brother curled up and snoring on top of the bed, jeans scraped up at the knees and clothes covered in mud from the chase. He didn’t sleep that night, instead gathering supplies and making plans, trying not to think about his other boys, in the walls of Schlatt’s L’Manberg. Niki would watch out for them, he knew she would, and he had to protect the one thing he currently had left, hidden away in a dirt shack near a ravine.

He figured out early on that life in a rift of the world wasn’t good for his health. His head pounded almost constantly, his stomach ached when he would dump half of his own food onto Tommy’s plate (they were on a constant food shortage and his brother needed it more than he did), and it churned in protest with every bite he shoved into his mouth. Technoblade was there, though the memory of how that happened in the first place was fuzzy at best, and with him came strategies and weaponry. The voice in the back of Wilbur’s head, the one that yelled that everything he ever did was wrong and laughed at his misery, had only gotten louder during their time in the ravine, especially so after Techno’s arrival. Only now, it screamed for vengeance, whispered angrily about betrayal and loneliness, and cackled in delight at the TNT held casually in the grasp of a once enemy.

Tubbo almost reminded him of Schlatt, stood at the podium with a finely pressed suit made of materials Wilbur knew were far too expensive for them to have ever owned. The only difference was the hunch in the boys shoulders, the way his hands shook as he fiddled with his sleeves, and the shaky smile that lacked disgusting trickery and oozed confidence. A part of him screamed when they boxed Tubbo in, and he knew only the firm hand harshly gripping Tommy’s bicep was the only thing keeping them both from leaping after the other boy. That same part of him absolutely rioted as Technoblade was called up, loosely holding a loaded crossbow, and Wilbur violently shoved that part down. He watched, numb, as one of the boy’s he had raised was brutally executed in front of the entire country, and another slipped through his grasp, launching himself down to the stage below. Wilbur didn’t stick around to find out what would happen next, hurtling himself to the ground and searching for the button.

He didn’t find it.

Fundy was a spy. He was spying on Manberg for them. He wanted to help them take down Schlatt. Through the cracks in his mind, Wilbur was relieved. He wanted to throw his arms around his son and sob, wanted to whisper that he forgave him and welcome him back with open arms. But the voice was still demanding retribution, and a smirking mask flashed behind his eyes. There was still so much work to do.

The vault was something else. Walls lined with weapons and chests full of more supplies than was probably necessary. There was enough armor for all of them, and Wilbur wondered if Techno predicted Fundy being a spy and Quackity joining them, or if the man had overcompensated and had the extra armor already. He would say they almost stood a chance at winning the war. Almost, except for the stacks of dynamite laying under the dirt and a hidden room made by an insane man in an attempt to regain control. Wilbur wondered what Philza would think about all this, wondered if he had seen his letter yet.

Taking down Schlatt had been easy enough, the ram hybrid had even done the work himself, going by the empty bottle of poison under one of the tables, not that Wilbur thought anyone else noticed it. He didn’t point it out. He left, immediately after it was decided that Tubbo would become president. An awful idea, putting a child in charge, but it wouldn’t matter soon. The only thing Tubbo would be president of was a crater in the ground.

Philza showing up was a surprise. It made Wilbur want to scream. Out of all the times for the man to decide he wanted to act like a father, why did it have to be now?

Why, when Wilbur was finally ready to let go? It didn’t matter in the end, he had already made up his mind, as shattered as it was. He had been here too many times before, shaking and pacing and waiting for the right moment. It just wasn’t meant to be.

He pressed the button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I had to check Tommy’s Dream SMP wiki for reference and found out he has a canonical /wife/. Tommy’s character is canonically married to The Grind and it is so fucking funny to me


	2. Ghostbur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghostbur’s thoughts during his time on the SMP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* - talk about Wilbur’s death, possible suicidal ideation (Ghostbur refers to his death as a happy memory), and talk about Tommy’s time in exile
> 
> EDIT - I rewrote the ending because I realized I fucked up my own timeline

He hadn’t expected to wake up after being stabbed through the stomach by his father. But here he was, floating listlessly through a field of flowers, unsure of how he had gotten there. He stared down at see-through hands, clenching and unclenching and remembering the pain he felt in his right one, before he died. It had been red and blistering and it shook as he held onto the fabric of his fathers clothes, eyes blissfully slipping closed. He wondered what had happened to it.

Quickly scanning the area, he spotted a familiar landmark, racing off in the direction where he knew L’Manberg to be. Only, it was different from last he saw it. There was a giant hole right in the middle, and most of the camarvan had been decimated. How had that happened? He was so busy examining the hole, that he hadn’t noticed the figure coming up behind him, until a familiar voice called out to him.

_“Wilbur?”_

Except, no, that wasn’t quite right. Because he was dead. And there were holes in memory, vital pieces that he instinctively knew to be missing. They were pieces that made him Wilbur, and without them he simply wasn’t. He explained this to the boy ( _Tubbo_ , his mind cried out in delight upon locking eyes), who’s face scrunched up in confusion and he just laughed, absently tugging at his yellow sweater, and introducing himself as _Ghostbur_. This seemed to confuse Tubbo even more, but he nodded along and asked if he would like to help him build, stumbling over his name as if it were a new language.

And Ghostbur smiled and agreed. He loved building, and he loved helping. Especially when it involved his family.

He learned a lot of things while helping Tubbo rebuild L’Manberg. He learned that the nation had exploded, though the details of how were always avoided. He learned Tubbo was president, which Ghostbur congratulated him for. And he learned that his presence made people uncomfortable, which made sense because he was dead. And maybe he should have been more distressed at being a ghost, but his death was a happy moment, for him. Why should he be upset about being a ghost when he was so happy to die in the first place? He told Tubbo this when the boy had asked him if he was angry about his death, and he looked sad afterwards, so Ghostbur tried to smile comfortingly, offset by the gaping hole in his sweater, and handed him some blue.

Fundy was mad at him, but he couldn’t remember why. He tried, he really did, but looking into his mind was like wandering around a swamp, and he had difficulty pulling certain memories out of the murky depths of the water. This just seemed to irritate his son more, and he refused to take the offered blue out of Ghostbur’s hand, storming out of the sewer with his tail swishing erratically behind him. Ghostbur watched as Fundy went, wondering idly when he would be back, and looking down at the vibrant blue staining his hands, confused as to why he had it out in the first place.

Tommy seemed to be the one most unbothered by his presence. He didn’t send him sad, pitying glances like some of others did, and he didn’t outright despise looking at him like the rest. He talked to Ghostbur like he would anyone else, loud and passionate and full of a familiar fire. Tommy’s new friend, Ranboo, was nice too, if a bit nervous. Ghostbur watched as the boys laughed and talked, walking down the prime path without a care, and giggling when Tommy tripped over his own feet, the enderman hybrid quickly catching him with a hand around his arm. If he still had a working heart and bloodstream, his heart would’ve warmed at the sight of the two fast friends. As it were, he just smiled softly and left them to it.

Ghostbur liked Logstedshire, though he wished Tommy would come back to L’Manberg with him to visit Tubbo. The boy’s looked so sad without the other around, but Tubbo insisted he had work to do, and Tommy told him he couldn’t go back quite yet. He didn’t understand why, though, they could just end their vacation early, but his brother refused every time he asked. Tommy didn’t stay in his log house either, instead sleeping in a tent a little closer to the shore. That confused Ghostbur as well, especially when he returned a few times to find the boy soaking wet, shivering from the cold. Surely if his brother stayed in his vacation home, there would be less of a chance of him getting soaked by the waves, even though Ghostbur was unsure how that was happening in the first place, as the tent itself remained perfectly dry.

He was glad Tommy had moved in with Technoblade. His brother’s torn up clothes had been replaced with blue cloth and a warm cape, perfect for the snowy weather, and he looked so much happier. Logsted had been fun for a little bit, but Ghostbur could tell Tommy was getting sick of it, even with the beach party coming up. He had asked Tommy how it had gone, and was surprised to find that no one had shown up. Dream had promised to hand out the invitations, after all, but he opted not to dwell on the issue for too long.

Techno had given him an umbrella, a blue one, much to his delight, so he could follow Tommy around out in the snow. The snow didn’t burn him nearly as bad the rain did, but he appreciated the thought. The piglin hybrid had even given Ghostbur some hay, to take back to Friend whenever he visited L’Manberg next. Which he did, after brushing back Tommy’s long fringe from his face, laying a barely there kiss to his brothers forehead and promising to come back soon.

Dream was an odd man, he decided on his second trip to the Arctic. He asked a lot of questions, and Ghostbur did his best to answer them but half of his mind was still on Tommy, curled up in a box upstairs, and voice shaky when he had begged Ghostbur to not let Dream take him. He didn’t really understand, but he knew his brother was in some kind of trouble and he would be damned if he got hurt on his watch. He wasn’t the best liar in the world but at least Dream hadn’t stayed around too long, Ghostbur showing him to the door and the man leaving with only a backwards glance towards the large cobblestone tower next to the cabin. He turned around after the masked man was out of sight, the lid to the box slamming open and what he assumed to be an invisible Tommy clambering out, the potion wearing off less than a minute later.

He spent that night in the basement with Tommy, humming familiar tunes under his breath as the boy whimpered and thrashed in his sleep. After a while of singing and cold fingers brushing through dirtied hair, his brother settled into a calmer rest, and Ghostbur cooed at the hand that wrapped tightly around an enchanted compass, even unconscious.

He drifted for a bit after that, saying a hello to Philza one moment and finding himself in the not quite afterlife the next. It was confusing and underwhelming and Ghostbur had no clue how it worked, but when he finally got enough energy to force himself back into the overworld, he was reminded of his first time appearing as a ghost. But much, much worse.

The hole where L’Manberg used to be was large, and still growing. He waited on the sidelines until it ended, watching Dream vanish from the obsidian walkway, leaving Tommy and Tubbo to stare down into the wreckage. They told him it had been Dream, Technoblade, and Philza that had done this. But that couldn’t be right, because Phil knew Friend was in his house, he wouldn’t put the sheep in harms way. His father had promised to watch him. He knew Friend was in his house. But the house was gone now and so was Friend.

It was raining harshly but Ghostbur paid it no mind, staring into Tommy’s eyes as he firmly told him his request to be resurrected. He was so angry and so heartbroken, but he knew he couldn’t do anything, not with his limited abilities and screwed up memory. But if Tommy could find out a way to bring him back to life, then maybe _Alivebur_ could do something.

First though, they needed to figure out how to revive him. He wondered if Dream would be able to help. Or maybe Philza.

They had him up on an altar made of blue, filled with things that were supposedly important to Alivebur, though he didn’t quite get the point of the fish. Ghostbur braced himself for the inevitable, he was scared to go but he knew in his soul that this was the right choice. The first time didn’t work, so they went and found Friend. That hadn’t worked out either, all it had done was create an ache in his temples and leave him with a strange craving for whiskey and cigarettes. So they put the resurrection on hold and went back to the metaphorical drawing board. He thanked them all for trying anyway, handing an extra bit of blue to his son, who had been nearly silent the whole time, and fizzling out of the overworld. He was exhausted.

He didn’t come back, he couldn’t. He supposed it was for the best, his absence made it that much easier for them to pull Alivebur into the living world. And he could feel it, they were getting closer to being able to resurrect him. Even with that thought in mind, he was sad to be leaving them. He would miss them.

But, as he drifted in the blank space of the not quite afterlife, watching as the world moved on without him, he knew they would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so fucking exited for Wilbur to come back


End file.
